


Be Mine

by Ilya_Writes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe - Royalty, And my girl Mila of course makes an appearance, M/M, Victuuri are Yuri's parents, Yuri still really hates JJ
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-11 02:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12925632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilya_Writes/pseuds/Ilya_Writes
Summary: All loyalty and obedience that Yuri has ever known has stemmed from his position as the heir apparent, the future monarch of Amphora. But despite Otabek having no obligation to the Royal Family, he has vowed to devote his life to Yuri’s protection and pleasure of his own volition. The realization that Otabek may be the only person to have shown him both genuine defiance and devotion causes Yuri’s head to spin in a way that is not entirely unpleasant, and he finds himself wanting to believe that there is genuine fidelity and even reverence within the smoldering gaze of his fiancé's dark eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After lurking on this site for so long, this has been a long time coming... And while I regret that I'm only posting my first fic now, I'll admit that the lengthy revision process this has undergone was most likely a good thing. Hopefully, my readers will agree. Please enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All loyalty and obedience that Yuri has ever known has stemmed from his position as the heir apparent, the future monarch of Amphora. But despite Otabek having no obligation to be subservient to Yuri, he has vowed to devote his life to Yuri’s protection and pleasure of his own volition. The realization that Otabek may be the only person to have shown him both genuine defiance and devotion causes Yuri's head to spin in a way that is not entirely unpleasant, and he finds himself wanting to believe that there was genuine fidelity and even reverence within the smoldering gaze of his fiance's dark eyes.

***

  
Yuri sits in an intricately carved, beautifully adorned high-backed chair, looking for all the world like the wealthy son of royalty in his temporary throne draped in rich, brightly dyed fabrics and luxurious velvet cushions.

However, he can’t help but feel that he’s worse off than even the commoners huddled in crowds at the lowest tiers of the circular wooden stadium, chanting and shouting jovially as they jostle each other about while watching the tournament below. Watched like a hawk by the eagle-eyed Lilia and hawkish Yakov hovering somewhere behind him, all that Yuri can do is enviously scowl down at the crowds below, watching as they blithely enjoy the festivities. 

The bastards.

Yuri himself has been forced to sit absolutely, perfectly still in his seat (just as his governess Lilia has ingrained into him through hours upon hours of mind-numbing etiquette training), sweating under his many layers of royal garments as he distractedly pretends to watch the jousters below. His parents, the reigning King and Queen, absolutely adore these jousting tournaments, talking about them for days on end and constantly reminding Yuri that he is privileged to be a part of them, privileged to one day inherit rulership of a land with such rich and proud traditions as Amphora.

But Yuri spends most of his time at the tournament ignoring the ongoing duels in favor of mentally cursing his parents and their insufferable enthusiasm for all of Amphora’s traditions (which apparently extends even to ones as time-consuming and gruesome as jousting.) 

Yuri had tried his absolute damndest to get out of coming to this tournament, flat-out refusing to leave his room at the castle this morning and even threatening to eviscerate himself on one of his bed posts if anyone so much as attempted to open the doors. But as soon as Mila (that conniving, red-headed she-devil who Victor and Yuuri had for some reason appointed as his personal guard) had thrown the doors to his room open and lifted him high above her head, Yuri knew that it was a lost cause.

After all, as the heir apparent Yuri holds a position of honor in this jousting tournament. It’s he who presides over the tournament and announces the final victor, he who grants the victor’s request, and it is in his honor that this (boorish, uninteresting, and incredibly long) tournament is being fought. 

And as much as it wounds him to admit it, it actually makes sense that his parents had refused to budge on his attendance. In truth, Yuri has known from the start that there’s no way in hell Victor and Yuuri would pass up a chance to coo and fawn over the sight of their incredibly unwilling and characteristically irritable nineteen year old regaled in the full splendor of his royal garments.

Of course, his parents are fully aware that Yuri is currently mentally scheming the best possible ways to cause havoc around the castle as revenge for his forced attendance at this event. And yet, both of his obnoxiously affectionate and doting parents continue to whisper and chuckle conspiratorially every time Yuri lets out an exasperated sigh, only further reinforcing his belief that his father and papa actually find the sight of their exasperated son cute somehow. (His parents are weird.)

Despite deliberately ignoring the outcomes of duels listed on the scoreboard below, Yuri gradually becomes aware that the last seven out of ten duels in this (unbearably lengthy and equally violent) tournament have been won by the same jouster in dull grey armor. It registers as an unusually impressive feat even to Yuri, and his attention is gradually if not begrudgingly drawn to the nameless jouster, whose rich, caramel-colored skin is just barely visible behind the protection of his dull and slightly dented helmet. 

This particular jouster's appearance at the tournament was a shock to the commoners; as soon as he had ridden out on his white and black speckled mare, Yuri could instantly hear the waves of gossip and conversation rippling out from the peasant crowds on the tiers below him. But as Yuri refuses to sacrifice even a single brain cell to the worthless cause of thinking about peasant gossip or his least favorite sport in Amphoran tradition, he can honestly say that he gives zero fucks about jousting or anything that pertains to it, including whether or not this particular jouster maintains his winning streak.

However, he still finds himself wincing occasionally throughout the tournament, unable to stop his gaze from wandering down to the particularly gruesome sights of challengers being speared by their opponent’s lances or falling from horseback onto the hard and unforgiving earth. Jousting is an incredibly violent sport, as the jousters themselves have no choice but to injure others or be injured themselves. And while Yuri tries to be mentally present for this gory ordeal as little as possible, he can’t help but flinch each time the crowd lets out a cheer at a particularly hard-hitting blow. 

His dads are definitely sadists for enjoying this. Although to be fair, they seem to be more interested in using this tournament as an excuse to make disgustingly gooey eyes at both him and each other than in actually observing the time-honored Amphoran tradition going on below them.

Yuri winces again as he watches an injured challenger being carried off by the medics, the jouster in the dull metal armor perfectly still on his horse as he watches his opponent being carried off of the field. He just doesn’t understand how someone can intentionally injure another human being so badly and then watch, without remorse, as their opponent is carried away on a gurney. And while Yuri has had to fight with himself to conceal his own repulsed reactions to the violence present in the tournament, the jouster in the dull grey armor has brutally injured his opponents in the last seven duels without once displaying anything like hesitance or remorse.

It disgusts Yuri. If he could completely do away with this barbaric and terrible tradition, he would.

***

Yuri watches the sun setting over the western parapet of the city, the bloody reds and oranges of the impending twilight only further reminding him of the violence of the tournament below. 

His position on the royal viewing platform on the sixth tier allows him a view of the capital city painted in the colors of sunset, and he can even see the gargantuan stone castle standing in the city’s center. Yuri watches wistfully as the colors of the twilight dye the castle’s stone walls in their brilliant hues, wanting nothing more than to return to the castle, fall into his decadently ornamented bed, and begin re-reading his favorite book on the big cat species of Amphora while enjoying the company of his companion animal, Potya. 

The victory bell rings from the jousting field below, drawing Yuri’s attention back to the tournament. He feels a sudden spike of excitement when he realizes that the next duel will be the final of the tournament, after which he can announce the victor, grant his request, and then finally go home.

The crowd applauds wildly as the two jousters get into position for the start of the duel, and Yuri begrudgingly allows his curiosity to get the better of him as he looks down to inspect the contestants. He recognizes the contestant on the black Thoroughbred from last year’s tournament; his name is Jean-Jacques and he is the victor of the previous year’s final duel. He’s the son of a well-known dignitary who lives in the east of the city, and the request that Yuri had granted for him a year ago was to hold a public feast for the commoners. The gesture had made Jean-Jacques extremely popular among the citizens, something that becomes even more apparent to Yuri as the crowd begins to raucously chant his name, annoyingly enthusiastic to see him win again. 

Of course, Yuri both always has and always will view Jean-Jacques as nothing more than a pompous asshole who takes a perverse pleasure in being impudent to him in public, as if teasing the heir apparent is something to be taken lightly. He had tried to get Jean-Jacques sentenced to treason for his insubordination several years ago, but it had only resulted in Yuri getting his court privileges taken away. Because apparently, Victor and Yuuri had agreed with the Royal Court that “harmless flirting” was not a punishable offense.

(When Yuri becomes King, that will change.)

Yuri’s attention is drawn back to the field by a small smattering of applause and cheers for Jean-Jacques’ opponent, the same nameless jouster in the dull armor who had wracked up a winning streak with his brutal tactics early on. His white and black Andalusian mare is shorter and less athletic than Jean-Jacques’s Thoroughbred, his armor is bulkier and less modern in design, and it is unmistakably obvious that he is not the crowd favorite. 

Yuri doesn’t think that he will need to pay much attention to this round in order to determine the final victor.

As soon as the duel begins, the jouster in the dull armor charges at Jean-Jacques with surprising force, nearly knocking the veteran athlete off of his horse and leaving him barely clinging to the saddle. Too stunned at the unnamed jouster’s immediate attack to relish the sight of one of his least favorite people almost being literally knocked off of his high horse, Yuri watches numbly as Jean-Jacques hastily recovers and goes on the offensive, successfully denting his opponent’s already partially deformed grey armor with the sharp tip of his long, masterfully forged lance.

Yuri shudders at the sickening sound of the blow that the unnamed jouster sustains, unable to hide his reaction at the crunch of metal piercing through metal even as he knows Lilia will chastise him for it later. While Yuri can’t find it within himself to work up too much sympathy for jousters in general, he also recognizes that being hit with a lance feels like a strong punch in strong armor. He can only imagine how painful it must feel to be struck with the sharp tip of Jean-Jacques’s lance while in weak, dented armor.

But the unnamed jouster perseveres throughout the round, finally emerging victorious when he manages to knock Jean-Jacques off of his black Thoroughbred completely. Jean-Jacques exits the stadium, limping but otherwise unharmed, and Yuri’s eyes slowly trail back from his retreating form to that of the victorious but clearly injured jouster remaining on the field. 

The unnamed jouster’s armor is so dented and deformed that it seems to cling to his muscular frame like a second skin, form-fitting in some places and uncomfortably jutting into his body at others. Yuri has heard that if a jouster’s armor has sustained too much damage, it has to be broken and chipped off piece by piece, and he has no doubt that the unnamed victor will be at the medic’s tent immediately after the completion of the tournament, his armor being broken apart by a metalsmith as his body is tended to by a person of medicine.

The victory bell is rung again, and Yuri rises swiftly from his chair. A hush falls over the crowd as all eyes turn toward the Prince, the commoners waiting with bated breath for the final announcement and the granting of the victor’s request.

“The final duel of the tournament has concluded,” Yuri announces authoritatively amid the hush of the spectators. He maintains his steady voice and regal posture with ease in front of the large crowds, but internally he is just barely suppressing the urge to rush through his customary lines so that this tournament can finally just end. “The final victor may now make his request,” he finishes firmly, willfully ignoring the amused whispers of his obnoxiously entertained parents behind him. (They relish any and all displays of imperiousness from their usually crass and uncooperative son, finding that the cuteness of these moments is directly in proportion to how embarrassed Yuri is at the time of their occurrence.)

The commoners come alive at Yuri's words, shocked by the unexpected outcome of the duel but fiercely loyal to the sport that has become a symbol of their nation. Yuri waits until the cheers of the crowd have abated before directing his focus to the victorious jouster, taking the time to deliberately steel his voice before asking the final question that custom dictates. “What request have you?”

The entire stadium watches expectantly as the jouster carefully removes his dull grey helmet, turning his intense and smoldering gaze upward towards Yuri as he does so. 

The expression in the jouster’s dark, amber-colored eyes is fierce with determination as he levels his gaze directly at Yuri, showing none of the respect and deference that Yuri has come to expect of commoners. Every past winner of this tournament has genuflected out of deference for the heir apparent before averting their eyes and humbly stating their request. Even Jean-Jacques had observed the proper decorum of lowering himself before the Prince during the previous tournament, only daring to make his impertinent quips at the heir apparent when he had engaged in a more private audience with the Royal Family and their ensemble of guards. 

But this man with his fiercely simmering expression does nothing but stare at Yuri, his gaze strong and almost challenging as he observes the Prince. Had Jean-Jacques or any other commoner displayed this type of behavior toward him, Yuri would have been offended. But Yuri can’t really find it in himself to be angry at this man when he is so clearly from a foreign land.

The jouster’s eyes are of a peculiar almond shape, and they are outlined in what appears to be black kohl. He has six intricately forged metal rings, all of which are connected to each other through a series of smaller metal links, dangling from his left ear. The long locks of his dark hair, which is the distinctive color of writing ink, are partially tied up in a small bun behind his head in the style of Amphoran soldiers. And yet, the bottommost portion of his hair extending from his sharp jawline to the tips of his ears has been shaved close to his skull, resembling a fine veneer of dark velvet.

Yuri has never seen any person wear such an intricate series of metal ornaments anywhere but around their necks, and he has only ever seen the ladies at court wearing kohl-rimmed eyes and tied up-hair. But the unnamed jouster is as masculine a man as any Yuri has ever seen, a fact that becomes increasingly more apparent with every moment that he spends observing the unnamed man’s dark gaze and muscular form. The jouster’s high cheekbones, masculine tan, and strong, sharp jawline make him handsome via an aesthetic that Yuri has never observed before.

Yuri feels an unexpected but not unpleasant stirring in his stomach as his attention trails down from the man’s strong, burning gaze to drink in the entirety of his form. The beads of sweat dripping down the unnamed victor’s jawline and pooling in the hollows of his collarbonesー the partially visible portion of his tanned upper chest, glistening with pearls of moistureー the combination of strong, muscled limbs and broad shoulders pulled firmly back into a confident, dominant postureー 

They all cause Yuri to temporarily stop breathing. 

Despite his repugnance at the sport of jousting, he will admit that the jouster is handsome, devilishly handsome, and fascinatingly exotic.

The only other person that Yuri has ever seen with caramel-colored skin and dark, ebony-colored hair is his papa, Yuuri. Victor has told him many times of how he met Yuuri while on a voyage to a distant land, an exotic nation where such phenotypes are common. (Of course, Yuri usually tunes out the vast majority of the story, as it consists of flowery, effervescent declarations of love at first sight and other nonsense that he would rather die than willingly listen to.) But Yuri has heard Victor’s descriptions of his papa’s nation often enough to know that the jouster in front of him does not seem to be typical of Yuuri’s people, either.

Aside from the descriptions provided in his father's nauseatingly quixotic story, Yuri has encountered depictions of people with a similar phenotype to that of his papa and the nameless jouster only once, when he read a book from the royal libraries on nations of people from lands to the East. There were illustrations of people from distant lands, ones far in the direction of the Eastern mountains, for whom it was strange to be born with light hair and pale skin as most people in Amphora are. 

But why would a foreigner from a distant nation enter a jousting tournament? As far as Yuri is aware, jousting is a tradition that exists only in Amphora. 

“Tell me, victor, which land are you from,” Yuri commands suddenly, his curiosity piqued as he surveys the jouster from his position overlooking the stadium.

The victor is briefly quiet, the intensity of his dark eyes morphing into a contemplative expression as he carefully considers how to answer. “From the lands of Jin, Prince,” he replies evenly, his deep and heavily accented voice only slightly halted as he pronounces the foreign words.

Yuri feels his heart rate accelerating slightly at the jouster’s reply, finding himself increasingly charmed at the man’s steady confidence and drawn in even further by his appealingly exotic accent. The unnamed man’s voice is slightly dark and husky, and it adds to the peculiar charm of his unique appearance and masculine visage, speaking to everything in Yuri that relishes the exotic, almost dangerous appeal of the man gazing up at him with those smoldering eyes.

“Tell me, jouster, what is your request,” Yuri commands imperially, his voice ringing out with authority as his eyes shine feverishly bright. If before he was eager to continue the closing ceremony for the sake of finally ending this tournament and going home, he’s now genuinely curious as to what this man, obviously a foreigner from a distant land, could possibly desire from the Royal Family of Amphora.

The victor pauses yet again, seeming to carefully think over his words before pronouncing them, each syllable distinct and clear as he turns the full force of his simmering gaze on Yuri’s equally intense emerald eyes. “It must be granted by the King and Queen,” he says firmly.

And Yuri goes from charmed to annoyed in a split second. 

As an avid reader of royal history books and political accounts from Amphora as well as from foreign nations, a pursuit firmly encouraged by his parents (and even more firmly enforced by his tutor Yakov), Yuri understands that it may seem strange for the heir apparent to preside over such a time-honored ceremony instead of the King and Queen. 

However, the jouster’s fiery, unwavering gaze combined with his almost defiant words are beginning to wear on Yuri’s patience. The charm of the the foreigner’s exotic speech and intriguing appearance beginning to lose their novelty, Yuri once again returns to having but a single want and need in this world: wrapping up this tournament quickly so that he can return to the castle and try to forget being dragged into this arena and forced to preside over a tradition he absolutely loathes. 

(And the fact that Yuri’s authority as the Prince is now being publicly rejected by this nameless commoner only serves to further this agenda.)

“Jouster, this tournament is fought in my honor,” Yuri explains haughtily, his attempts to keep his voice stable and measured now nullified by the prideful annoyance that creeps into it. “I am the one who presides over the tournament from its opening ceremony to its completion, and I will be the one to grant your request.”

This time the jouster does not pause before speaking, barely allowing for a moment to pass between Yuri's final words and his own unwavering declaration. “It must be granted by the King and Queen,” he repeats firmly in the same heavily accented voice.

Yuri’s temper begins to flare at the repeated rejection, his frustration now rivalling his exhaustion as he wonders whether the jouster knows Amphoran well enough to even understand what Yuri is trying to tell him. 

The sight of Victor rising from his throne saves Yuri from having to dwell on it for long, a rush of relief washing over him as he silently sits back into his own throne, mentally thanking his father for pausing in whatever disgustingly gooey conversation he was having with Yuuri to actually step in and aid his distressed son. The Queen rises to join the King a moment later, the Royal Couple directing their eyes down toward the ground floor of the arena as the unnamed jouster begins to speak again.

“As per the rules of the tournament,” the jouster says in his husky, strongly accented voice, “I am granted one request.”

There is an audible creak throughout the stadium as the expectant commoners collectively lean forward over the wooden railings of the first five tiers, and an audible groan as Yuri gives up and leans back in his heavily ornamented throne, waiting for this all to be over so that he can finally return home and actively try to forget every detail of this experience overnight.

“I wish to marry your son.”

The collective gasp that fills the stadium is not loud enough to drown out the sound of the Queen falling to the ground in shock, or of Yuri falling to his knees in a fit of hysterical laughter.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr! [https://ilya-writes.tumblr.com/](url)


	2. Chapter 2

***

The jouster stands tall in the center of the stadium, withstanding the scrutiny of thousands of onlookers. 

Just a moment before, he had stood in this stadium the exalted final victor of the jousting tournament, about to be granted his one request. But now his position is more akin to that of a man on trial, judged before a panel composed of his peers, and about to be delivered his sentencing directly from the mouth of the King.

The Queen, who has been promptly assessed by the Royal Guard and is now supported in the embrace of his husband’s arms, is roused back to the present situation by the loud, boisterous laughing of the Prince. 

Yuri’s laughter reverberates throughout the entire stadium, the only sound audible amidst the shocked silence of the commoners. The thought that he, the Prince, would be married off to this random foreigner all for the sake of upholding the pomp and circumstance of a jousting tournament is enough to split his sides open with hysteria.

“Jouster,” the King addresses sternly, using his most foreboding and regal tone to cut through the ongoing peals of his son’s mirth. “You are clearly a stranger in our lands, and unaware of our customs. The Royal Family is required to grant one request of the final victor, but this tournament is fought in honor of the Prince, not for his hand. This request we cannot grant you,” Victor finishes firmly, still supporting the Queen in his arms as he directs his now piercing gaze at the man standing boldly on the ground floor of the arena. 

“You may have any jewels or riches that your heart desires,” the Queen intones hastily, finally having recovered from his shock enough to address the foreigner in a pleading tone. “But the Prince is the crown jewel of our kingdomー He is both our great nation’s heir apparent, and my precious and only son. We absolutely cannot marry you to him,” he concludes with resolve, his voice portraying only a fraction of the anxiety still plaguing his mind.

Yuri watches incredulously as his parents respond to the jouster’s request with their own counter-offers, his laughter suddenly tapering off as the absurdity of the situation gives way to a slight sense of fear. He absolutely detests these jousting tournaments, absolutely detests the unbearably drawn-out and pointless violence and gore that characterizes every duel. But he knows from his studies that jousting tournaments are a time-honored Amphoran tradition, one that has been present ever since the inception of the nation of Amphora many thousands of years ago, and that the final victors' requests are contracts with the Royal Family and are therefore legally binding.

His parents’ defensive replies and counter-offers to the still unnamed jouster’s request have worried Yuri, managing to puncture even the usually impenetrable sense of self-assurance that accompanies his title as the heir apparent, and he begins to feel a vague sense of foreboding.

“King Victor, Queen Yuuri,” the jouster enunciates slowly in his deep and heavily accented voice, “I have fought this entire tournament for the purpose of making my request. As a foreigner from the nation of Jin, I have reviewed the rules of the tournament as they were posted in Amphoran and as they have been described in the history books of my native language.” He pauses here, directing his unwaveringly intense gaze solely at the King as he continues his address. “I understand that the tournament is a contract, a binding contract, bound by the participation of the Royal Couple and presided over by the Prince. The King has an obligation to ensure that the heir apparent upholds the rules,” he continues evenly, his dark gaze flickering heatedly to Yuri before returning to rest solely on the Amphoran King, “and to ensure that the request comes to pass. I have not requested violence, nor the breaking of a law, nor the pardoning of a condemned prisoner. I have fought with my life on the line and my request is within the rules,” he finishes resolutely, his carefully pronounced words ringing with an air of finality as he continues to gaze expectantly at the King.

“Jouster,” the Queen cries out in response, clearly distressed by the man’s refusal to be dissuaded. “We applaud you for your bravery and for your commitment to the rules, but we cannot grant you this request. Surely, there must be an alternative,” he says beseechingly, his tone once again pleading as he addresses the foreigner from the comforting grip of his husband’s encircling arms. “For fighting in honor of the Prince, we will give you many years’ worth of goldー enough gold to last well past the rest of your lifetimeー past your children’s lifetimes, even! Then you may return to Jin the richest man in the kingdom, perhaps even richer than your King.”

The jouster directs his gaze to the Queen, his smoldering gaze softening slightly as he takes in the man’s obviously distressed state. It is clearly apparent to him, as well as to every other person in the stadium, that the Queen has been stripped of the comforts usually afforded to him by royal status and refined airs. He is just a terrified father, frightened by an unforeseen situation that he knows he is powerless to control.

“I do not need money,” the jouster begins, his voice now distinctly softer, almost sympathetic, as he gazes evenly at the Queen. “I have no need for status, nor money, nor to return to Jin. I request only to marry the Prince.” The foreigner pauses here, clearly trying to work out what he wants to say in Jinen before converting it into the Amphoran that Yuri and his family speak. “I do not want to be a Prince,” he says in his dark, slightly husky voice. “I do not want to be a King. I know that the rulers of Amphora do not take concubines as the Jinens do, nor would I be satisfied with being one of many spouses,” the man pauses again here, visibly upset at the idea. “I have risked my life for the Prince, and now I would like to devote my life to him. Please, grant my request.” 

The man abruptly falls to his knees as he finishes speaking, his right hand raised above his heart and his gaze lowered to the earth in what is clearly a Jinen custom to indicate respect.

Yuri is not impressed. 

Instead, the Prince’s growing fear combined with his vague sense of foreboding are prompting him to a strange emotion that he cannot name. 

For Yuri’s entire life, it has been instilled in him that he lives to serve the whims of the people around him, to fulfill the duties of the heir apparent and bear all responsibilities that will prepare him to succeed his parents and serve the people of Amphora as their future King. Every choice has been decided for him; every decision from the books he reads to the person he will eventually marry has been predetermined to give him the greatest possibility of success in becoming a worthy ruler for the people of Amphora.

Even his attempts at rebellion (his oft-repeated and oft-failed attempts to deviate from the predetermined course of his life) only allow him to feel in control for the infinitesimal little instants between when he begins his plans and when he is inevitably intercepted and forced back into his routine of mindless compliance.

Is it not enough that Yuri willingly allows the King and Queen, the Royal Counsel, the Royal Guard, and the nobles to dictate his fate with minimal resistance? 

Is it not enough that every detail of Yuri’s life ー the clothes that he wears, the speeches he gives, the person who he will marry, and even the number of children he will raise in the futureー has been decided without him in order to advance the throne?

The impudence of this man, of this mere jouster, who wants to impose his will on Yuri when he has no right to do so is sparking up a defiance in Yuri that he has never felt before. He is already subject to the will of so many others in the Royal Court, including his parents, the counselors, the nobles, the guards, and his many tutors and governessesー Will he really be reduced to this? Married off to this jouster like a thoughtless, mindlessly compliant object to be won in a contest?

“Alright, jouster,” Yuri begins evenly, his voice betraying nothing of his rage as he stands and defiantly strides past his parents to lean over the railing of the royal viewing platform. “Tell me, who are you? Why are you worthy of marrying me, the Prince of all of Amphora?” Yuri says the words with every ounce of regal authority he can muster, determined not to be reduced to an objectionless object by this impudent, impertinent commoner. 

The jouster is handsome and clearly skilled at fighting, but he is just thatー a mere jouster. And by demanding Yuri’s hand like an object to be won, he is preventing Yuri from making a strategic marriage and placing in peril everything that Yuri has worked his entire life to attain.

“My name is Otabek Altin, Yurachka,” the foreigner says, his gaze fierce with the desire to prove himself as he looks up at the internally raging Yuri. 

The Prince’s lips tick downwards, unable to hold back from expressing his displeasure at being addressed so familiarly, but he remains silent under the intensity of the man’s smoldering gaze. 

“I am a commander of the Jinen army, a warrior,” Otabek continues slowly, his dark amber-colored eyes burning ever brighter as he unrelentingly holds Yuri’s gaze with his own. “I have fought for years, for half of my life on the horseback militia. Like Amphorans, we Jinen men learn literature, arithmetic, and we appreciate the arts. But we are a smaller nation with a smaller army, so we learn how to fight.” Otabek’s gaze becomes openly defiant now, unmistakably challenging as he stares into Yuri’s similarly defiant green eyes. “I am twenty two years old. Is a man three years older not suitable for you?” he asks rhetorically, a smirk appearing on his handsome face as the fierce intensity of his dark eyes renders Yuri unable to look away. “I have used my twenty two years learning how to fight, learning how to conquer and pillage as well as how to protect and serve. I have risked my life in this tournament, and I will devote the rest of it to you... You know nothing but books and customs and manners, and the niceties of noble women and men. But I can protect you, Yurachka.” 

The man pauses here, again calculating how to state his words in Jin. “My hands are the ones you need behind you. They are rough, experienced hands, with calluses from service in the jungle and scars from swords.” Otabek holds out his hands palm-up in front of him, extended upward toward Yuri to showcase the impressive array of white scars forming a contrast against his naturally tanned skin. Otabek’s chest is heaving with breath, his sweat trickling down his caramel-colored skin to form distracting beads that glisten enticingly on his collarbones. “I will protect you. As a friend, as a servant, as a lover. Do what you want with me, but marry me first, and feel my hands against your skin… Jinen men make better lovers, Yurachka. Hands rough with scars are better at serving, better at comforting, better at caressing, because they are a real man’s hands.”

Yuri once again finds himself being drawn in by that intense gaze, his ire momentarily forgotten as he is swept up in the masculine appeal of those determined, challenging eyes. There is something bewitchingly alluring about Otabek’s burning gaze and passionate speech, and he finds himself wanting to believe that Otabek’s words of devotion are genuine. He feels an unbidden rush of attraction travel through his body as he thinks of how Otabek, with his hands rough with scars from battle, would protect, serve, caressー

“I need time for counsel,” Yuri announces suddenly, steel once again returning to his voice as he inwardly chastises himself for succumbing to this man's exotic charms. He hastily turns on his heel to retreat further back onto the royal viewing platform, only to stop suddenly upon catching sight of the downcast, dewy eyes of an unusually expressive Lilia and the solemn face of an uncharacteristically reticent Yakov.

Yuri then reluctantly directs his gaze to his father and papa, both of whom wear matching expressions of tenderness and regret on their usually relaxed and contented faces. Their regretful but ultimately resigned expressions cause Yuri's stomach to churn with an ominous and ugly premonition, a dark foreboding that he knows he can no longer ignore.

“I do not think that that time for counsel will be necessary,” Otabek intones confidently, sounding almost arrogant as he addresses the Prince. “The tournament is contractually binding, and is a tradition thousands of years old. I know of Amphoran politics, of Amphoran government. Your nobles, your counselors, your advisors, they will all urge you to grant my request. And I will not be deterred,” he enunciates clearly as Yuri slowly turns back around to face him. 

“I will treat you well, with more loyalty and more love than even your most trusted servants, your very parents,” Otabek promises, his eyes speaking of devotion as he gazes at Yuri. “I am already yours,” he continues in his steady, passionate voice. “Yurachka, won’t you be mine?”

***


	3. Chapter 3

***

Yuri throws open the heavy wooden doors to his room in the palace, dejectedly throwing himself into bed and barely managing to avoid landing on top of Potya, who had been sleeping on a small mountain of luxurious pillows imported from the East.

He had tried to immediately run to his room as soon as the Royal Guard had escorted him back into the palace, but he had been intercepted by his father’s Chief Advisor and then forced to sit in on an emergency council session. Yuri had then been given no choice but to sit and observe as the council had decided his future for him. He was not even granted permission to speak as they decided that he would marry Otabek. 

Yuri has never before wanted to run away from the palace, but he feels a strong urge to do something, anything to escape the shame of knowing that he has had no hand in deciding his future. His attempts to prevent himself from being given away like a mere object were all met with resistance by the very members of his own Royal Court.

The council ーa group of women and men with gray hair and milky eyes, who can barely if at all remember what it is like to be young and frightened and forced into decisions that have been predetermined for themー acted as if the implication of the Royal Family turning down the tournament victor’s request was blasphemy. Yuri can still remember how Counselor Ilya had looked at him, smiling in a way that was meant to be reassuring but only came off to Yuri as condescending, when she assured him that marrying Otabek was a strategic move.

“The Jinens are of a smaller kingdom, with little monetary value but extreme military wealth,” Counselor Ilya had stated at the conclusion of the session. “A marriage between the Royal Family of Amphora and a former commander of the Jinen army with extensive military connections would have been beneficial even given…” She had paused here, giving Yuri a sidelong glance before ending abruptly. “Different circumstances.”

Yuri then immediately fled to his room, racing up the stairs to his section of the East Wing in a way that he had not done since childhood, when Lilia constantly scolded him for it. Yuri has always known that his parents and the counselors would be the ones to negotiate the terms of his marriage, to ultimately decide his future. But this abrupt twist of fate, in which not even his parents are able to have any control in selecting his partner, makes Yuri’s stomach twist and coil in shame.

The shameful feeling intensifies further when he remembers how he had laughed so freely earlier, how he had mocked the idea of marrying Otabek with such care-free certainty that it would never come to pass. But now he is left alone with nothing but the memories of how he had laughed in the face of his future husband, had challenged him head-on and been bested by a man who had essentially forced his parents’ hands and demanded that Yuri marry him.

He remembers the defiant light in Otabek’s eyes as he stated that he was a Jinen military man, as he challengingly questioned whether a three year age difference would be suitable for Yuri. Yuri's skin breaks out in gooseflesh at the memory of how Otabek had then promised to protect and serve himー had brazenly promised to protect, serve, and caress Yuri with his scarred Jinen hands.

It was a promise of devotion, of loyalty and subservience, made in front of not only the thousands of peasants present in the stadium, but also the nobles, the Royal Guard, and Yuri's own parentsー the Royal Couple themselves.

An unbidden feeling of desire arises in Yuri as he remembers Otabek’s alluringly masculine defiance in making such a brazen statement in public, a defiance that became all the more alluring when combined with his incredibly saccharine words of affection for Yuri. Otabek had called him Yurachka so sweetly, deliberately using a term that is reserved for only the most familiar people to the heir apparent, as he pledged his loyalty to Yuri by promising to be his servant, his lover, and his friend. 

Otabek has no obligation to serve Yuri in any capacity; he is neither a member of the Royal Guard nor of the Royal Court, nor is he even an Amphoran citizen. So the sheer contradiction of this man ーnow Yuri's fianceー publicly swearing to devote his life to obediently protecting and serving Yuri in the same breath that he used to demand his hand in marriage... 

It leaves Yuri breathless and confused and hopeful, hopeful in a way that he will scarcely admit even to himself.

All loyalty and obedience that Yuri has ever known has stemmed from his position as the heir apparent, the future monarch of Amphora. But despite Otabek having no obligation to be subservient to Yuri, he has vowed to devote his life to Yuri’s protection and pleasure of his own volition. The realization that Otabek may be the only person to have shown him both genuine defiance and devotion causes Yuri's head to spin in a way that is not entirely unpleasant, and he finds himself wanting to believe that there was genuine fidelity and even reverence within the smoldering gaze of his fiance's dark eyes. 

After all, he had publicly vowed to devote the rest of his life to Yuri if only Yuri would be his.

Yuri thinks of Otabek’s amber-colored eyes with their peculiar almond shape,  
the fascinatingly exotic series of metal rings dangling from his left ear,  
the intense, challenging gaze of his kohl-rimmed eyes,  
the dark, husky tone of his voice and its alluringly charming accent,  
the muscles of his broad, caramel-colored chest that heaved and glistened with every panting breathー

And he feels a sudden wave of desire so strong that he fears it may completely consume him.

Yuri suddenly jolts upright on his bed, completely overcome with conflicting emotions towards the man to whom he is now officially betrothed. It occurs to Yuri that Otabek should be receiving two scrolls at about this time, one inscribed in Amphoran and the other in his native language of Jin, both documenting the approval of Otabek's request as the tournament victor. Yuri feels the heavy weight of finality settling on his shoulders at the realization that he is now officially engaged to the exotic-looking jouster with caramel hair and skin, whose fierce amber eyes have perhaps shown Yuri the only genuine devotion (and the only genuine defiance) that he has ever known.

He thinks once again of the broad chest that glistened with sweat, the scarred Jinen hands that Otabek had presented to him, the claim that Jinen men make better lovers...

Yuri allows himself to slowly fall back onto the luxurious silk pillows behind him, curling into the soft velvet duvet of his decadently adorned bed as he closes his eyes and willfully attempts to put any thought of his impending marriage to his future husband out of his mind. 

He falls asleep to the recollection of Otabek’s broad, caramel-colored chest heaving with breath, his amber eyes gazing up at Yuri in adoration as he asks, Yurachka, won’t you be mine?

***

  
As soon as Yuri steps through the doorway of the opulently furnished council room, Otabek falls to his knees before him, eyes averted toward the floor and right hand raised over his heart in the Jinen gesture of deference. Yuri pauses in his tracks, stunned that the impertinent man who only yesterday had said such brazen, challenging words to him in public would sink to his knees in private.

Otabek is dressed simply in the traditional attire of Jinen men: a white linen tunic that extends past the knees and a pair of dark leather riding pants that clings to his form like a second skin. Despite Yuri’s immediate confusion at finding his future husband kneeling before him in the otherwise empty council room, he is unwillingly drawn in by the way that Otabek’s tanned skin contrasts so starkly against the pale fabric of his tunic, and he finds himself incredibly distracted by the way that the individual silver links of his earpiece sway against the caramel-colored skin of his neck. 

The visual of Otabek kneeling before him on the glossy marble floor prompts Yuri to remember how the man's tanned chest had heaved with labored breath as he kneeled before the Prince on the ground floor of the stadium, his skin glistening with sweat as he promised to devote his life to Yuri. But instead of inspiring him to revisit the sudden, overwhelming current of desire that inundated his thoughts last night, the visual only serves to remind Yuri that this audacious, presumptuous commoner kneeling before him had been so impertinent as to force his consent in marriage.

“Yurachka,” Otabek begins in his heavily accented Jinen, “I would like to thank you for accepting my request to speak privately. I know that it is not customary for a Prince of Jin to meet his fiance without a chaperone present,” Otabek concedes, his speech slightly halted as he translates his thoughts from Jinen to Amphoran. “But I wanted to express my sincere gratitude to you in private. I am honored that you plan to officially accept my proposal. And I am honored for the opportunity to devote my life toward becoming a worthy husband,” he finishes emphatically, his eyes fierce with sincerity and determination as he lifts his gaze to look longingly at Yuri. 

Yuri represses the urge to audibly scoff at the Jinen’s words, his appreciation of Otabek’s alluringly exotic features interrupted by disbelief at his future husband’s speech. Yuri’s memories of the emergency council session that had taken place in this very room only yesterday are still fresh in his mind, and the remembrance of how Otabek had successfully demanded a marriage to him as though he were a mere prize to be won causes that same shameful coiling to begin anew in Yuri's stomach, chafing at his pride.

“As you so eloquently stated during our first meeting,” Yuri begins bitterly, “the tournament is contractually binding. The request has already been approved, and I have no choice but to accept your proposal.” He pauses here to glance down at his still respectfully kneeling future husband, the sight of the man's unchanging expression doing nothing to placate Yuri's feelings of frustration. “My position as the future King of Amphora requires that I grant the tournament victor's request and take you as my betrothedー do not fool yourself into believing that you are actually worthy of the position, commoner,” he sneers.

Otabek’s expression shows no hint of remorse or regret at Yuri’s outburst, his composure completely unperturbed by the Prince's harsh words. But Yuri finds himself becoming increasingly more vexed by his fiance's perfectly placid expression, his hands clenching into curled fists at his sides as he eyes his seemingly unaffected fiance.

The jouster lifts his eyes from the floor to rest on Yuri, his gaze and expression still fierce with resolve as he begins to speak. “I understand that you are upset with me, and I do not ask for you to accept me immediately. All I ask is that you allow yourself to be served by me, to be protected by me…” Otabek pauses here, his words faltering as he observes Yuri’s dark expression. “All I ask is that you allow yourself to be loved by me, even if you do not return my ardor. I understand how you must feel about me now, my Yurachka. But I am confident that, with time, you will begin to feel otherwise,” Otabek concludes, his words ringing with determination despite the hint of desperation that has crept into his voice.

Yuri laughs sardonically as the still kneeling Otabek ends his speech, morbidly amused by the unprecedented confidence of this mere commoner. “You say that you understand how I must feel about you, but you are surely mistaken,” Yuri states bitterly as he directs his gaze downwards. “Because my understanding of love is that it should not be given to those who seek to degrade me. Not even a noble of vast wealth could earn my love by merely demanding it of me, and if you for one instant believe that your claims of love will soften the blow of this humiliationー you are truly deluding yourself.”

And so saying, Yuri turns on his heel and abruptly bolts out of the room, sudden tears springing to his eyes as he is overtaken by abject disappointment.

He had been so hopeful, so foolishly hopeful that the man to whom he is now engaged had been truthful in his claims of love and adoration, and now he feels humiliated at his own naivete. How could this man, this unrepentantly brash commoner, claim to care for Yuri while failing to understand that every fiber of the Prince’s being rebels at being treated like a mere prize?

How could this man claim to love Yuri while demonstrating that he knows nothing of the Prince at all?

***

Yuri stretches languidly against the unforgivingly hard frame of his opulent golden throne, joints popping and creaking in relief even as the rest of his body groans in protest at being forced to sit perfectly still and maintain impeccable posture for an ungodly amount of time.  
Yuri’s frustrating encounter with Otabek this morning hadn’t excused him from his official duties later in the day, and (despite fighting like a wildcat against Mila’s iron grip) his personal guard had managed to drag him into the extravagantly adorned throne room and into yet another endless procession of pompous officials, all grovelling for the opportunity to impress the Royal Family with exaggerated status reports and pretentious trinkets from their exploits abroad.

He can practically feel the heat of Lilia’s intensely disapproving gaze boring into the back of his head, her hawkish eyes easily singling out his temporary lapse in posture and burning it into her mind for future admonishment. Yuri has no doubt that he’ll soon be on the receiving end of a very pointed, very boring lecture detailing the incredibly specific etiquette that Yuri is to observe while overseeing visits from foreign dignitaries and ambassadors. He would expect no less from the eagle-eyed governess who has been his strictest instructor since childhood.

In Yuri’s defense, the only thing that Lilia would rebuke even more fervently than Yuri overtly stretching during an ambassador’s speech is the act of either talking out of turn or actually falling asleep during one, and Yuri has felt himself growing dangerously close to slumber amid the droning soliloquy of Ambassador Crispino’s incredibly uninteresting report. When Lilia eventually finds time to give Yuri the chastisement that he knows will come on the heels of this breach in proprietary, he’ll be sure to fire back by asking her how interesting she found the man’s report on establishing trade relationships amid the current global economic climate.

Yuri’s parents sit in their own similarly resplendent thrones to Yuri’s left, his father occupying the prime position at the center of the raised marble platform and his papa’s throne positioned directly to his husband’s right. 

Yuri usually spends at least part of these incredibly boring meetings internally criticizing the excessively bejewelled monstrosity that is his father’s throne, attempting to mentally piece together what ongoing string of bad decisions could cause it to look progressively more hideous each time he sees it. The King’s towering golden throne is so embellished with gems, festooned with velvets, and piled high with furs that even the ruby-encrusted Amphoran insignia at its center is hidden by the lavish adornments. 

It seems incredibly gaudy when compared to Yuri’s own throne, which is decorated simply with the antique pelt of an Amphoran Ice Tiger. It’s an heirloom acquired before the hunting of such majestic animals was decreed illegal, and Yuri had decided to honor how incredibly badass it is by making it the sole adornment of his throne.

Even the Queen’s throne, festooned as it is in precious silks acquired from his papa’s home country, seems almost spartan in its simplicity when compared to the disaster of interior design that is the King’s throne. 

But Yuri finds his gaze being unwillingly drawn away from the King’s throne and towards the hard lines of his father’s face instead, the usually (infuriatingly) carefree expression that his father is known for having been replaced by something forlorn and even dark. It signals an abrupt departure from his usually jovial demeanor, and Yuri has no need to guess what development has caused it.

Even his papa, the man so mild-natured and tender that Yuri has never seen him truly angry, wears a peculiarly drawn expression across his face, his true emotions carefully veiled behind a placid demeanor. The only indication of his naked emotional state can be found in the hard glint of bitterness in the Queen’s typically compassionate eyes. Yuri can’t remember ever having seen his papa so embittered or conflicted in the past, and the recollection does nothing to comfort him when faced with the harrowing changes that he seems to have undergone overnight.

With a start, Yuri realizes that he finds this bitterness pervading his perennially warm hearted papa to be truly terrifying.

It isn’t long before the first half of the visits has concluded, although to Yuri it feels as though he has aged several years since this morning when the procession beganー lived several lifetimes since this very day began. Belatedly, Yuri realizes that he feels that way often now, that even short intervals of time passing have made him feel as though he’s lived multiple lives in mere instances.

How could he not, when the terrifying realization of his forced engagement had only sunk in upon him last night, bringing with it the startling realization that a stranger’s request would continue to impact him for a lifetime? 

How could he not, when he has seen his father and his papa, the two men whom he loves best in this world, age overnight and awaken in the morning older than their years, bitter and embattled versions of themselves?

How could he not, when in just an instant Yuri had come to the horrifying realization that his hope to be loved, to be understood by the man who would rule by his side was nothing but a fantasy that could now never be revived?

***

The second half of the procession proves to be no more tolerable than the first, although Yuri’s muscles are at least temporarily placated by the reprieve brought by breaking for midday meal. The Royal Couple had been uncharacteristically terse throughout their unusually quiet time spent supping together, their eyes seeming to glide away from their beloved son like oil over glass.

Yuri knows that his parents must be feeling guilt, fear, even anger over their own failure to shield their son from this unexpected reality. The naked truth of the King and Queens’ utter helplessness to be anything but obediently compliant to their nation’s own laws is cruel in its almost perfect irony. The knowledge of his parent’s shame weighs Yuri down with too many thoughts to give attention to at once, bogging him down in a flood of murky thoughts and emotions that threaten to inundate his mind with their many undecipherable meanings. It only causes him to resent Otabek more, his utter humiliation at having the fantasy of love pried out of his hands morphing into righteous anger at the man who managed to bind himself to Yuri while simultaneously driving a wedge between himself and his parents.

Because while Yuri will never admit this aloud (not upon pain of death, or torture, nor any other means of extortion available in this world), he loves his parent with a ferocity so fierce and bright yet paradoxically tender that it puts his father’s old bedtime stories of agape to shame.

So for the time being, (in lieu of being able to communicate how much he feels he’s aged in the past day, how much he feels actual pain at having his parents’ gazes slide over him guiltily like wine down a chalice) Yuri does everything possible to distract both himself and his parents from their new grim reality.

And he does it by acting every part the spoiled, hellish brat that he has ever been in his nineteen years of existence.

Because if Yuri can convince his parents that he’s still the same carefree, over-indulged teenager that he was just yesterday (yesterday, before he aged years and years in the span of a night and a single morning), maybe they won’t feel so strongly that they’ve failed to protect their son. 

He makes his first move in the midst of a particularly mind-numbing speech being meted out by Ambassador Cialdini. His parents have been listening in what appears to be rapt attention to the ambassador’s incredibly boring report, although Yuri can tell that their apparent absorption in the uninteresting spiel is merely a farce. Both of his parents had turned their attentions inward long ago. He can see it in the distracted way that his father’s hazy gaze fails to focus on the official’s face, and in the way that his papa’s hands are clenched at his sides.

Yuri feigns a loud yawn, reclining against the throne as he stretches his hands high above his head in an exaggerated mockery of his subtle stretching earlier in the day. He can instantly sense the pure, molten rage radiating off of his his unhappy governess, and he realizes with dread that her sense of propriety will not be satisfied until Yuri sheds actual blood during whatever punishment she is going to dole out. (It will probably be making him stretch over this very throne, legs perpendicular to his body as he straddles the armrests and supports himself with nothing but the muscles of his aching thighs.) But he continues his crass breach of etiquette anyway, not relaxing his stretch until he hears the almost deafening pops of all his joints singing in relief at being freed from his stiff posture.

He can almost hear the question hanging over Mila’s head, can imagine the way that she is surely tilting her head in puzzled confusion from her position protectively stationed behind his throne. With the exception of Lilia, she is probably the person best-acquainted with his various attempts at rebellion and even sabotage (the latter having been primarily aimed at one Jean-Jacques Leroy) over the years. She’ll have questions for him later, but for now he knows that she’ll amusedly watch on without interfering in his plans.

“I don’t get it,” Yuri says evenly, affecting a deadpan tone and expression that effectively brings Ambassador Cialdini’s report to a screeching halt. “What’s so important about little vials of oil that you bring them all the way from the far East just so they can… what? Dress salads?”

Ambassador Cialdini’s expression is one of stunned embarrassment, his entire countenance going rigid even as his face gradually colors red at the abrupt line of questioning. Mila snickers quietly behind him, all too amused to bear witness to the situation and undoubtedly planning to tease the Prince about it incessantly, an unfortunate fact that Yuri wholeheartedly ignores in favor of continuing his inquisition.

“The other ambassadors bring gifts of sapphire and emerald, gold and silver, tiger claws and lion peltsー and you bring oil,” Yuri announces rhetorically, his displeasure at the unimpressive gift apparent in the way that he crinkles his nose in exaggerated aversion. “Why?”

This is actually a line of questioning that Yuri has pursued before, first asking a disgruntled Yakov and later his unusually tight-lipped parents themselves why the Royal Couple would be satisfied with Ambassador Cialdini’s entirely uninteresting little vials of viscous liquids. What’s more, in the past his father and papa have paid rapt attention to the older man’s straightforward reports on oil acquisition as though it actually retains their interest, hanging onto every word as though the ability to import exotic oils into Amphora is an achievement of national importance.

Yuri has been attending these (unceasingly, unbelievably boring) processions long enough to be aware that most of the gifts his parents receive consist of either precious metals, rare jewels, or exotic animals, and he has difficulty seeing how colorful little containers of liquid could have anywhere near equal importance. And yet, his parents seem to almost prefer the small vials of scented and flavored oil that this official brings them routinely every other fortnight. 

With a snort, Yuri wonders if his father and papa are really so strange that oil acquisition can command their complete attention when gifts of lion’s milk and aged tiger bone wine are received like mere trinkets. What could be so impressive about rare oils that they compare to other, more extravagant displays of wealth like geodes of amethyst or sheets of silk, gifts that can act as status symbols solidifying Amphora’s position as a nation of great wealth and broad diplomatic ties across the hemispheres? 

When Yuri is King, he’ll command entire fleets of explorers and battalions of Amphoran soldiers to search the globe for exotic treasure, traversing the world over and bringing back precious emeralds and shining gold and exotic cats and not fucking salad dressing. 

Yes, things will be different when Yuri is King.

“It’s just oil,” Yuri surmises boredly, brattily laying his cheek against an upturned palm as he surveys the perplexed and yet suspiciously rouged expressions of his stunned parents. “There’s no reason for you two senile fools to make it a national obsession, or anything...” he trails off disinterestedly.

Yuri’s father had been halfheartedly but experimentally opening a small vial to test its consistency between his fingertips when the Prince began his impromptu tirade, and oil now drips steadily from his fingers as he stares at his own son. Yuri stares back precociously, feeling both puzzled and resigned to his father’s weirdness in the way that only a nineteen year old can. He may be deliberately acting out to distract from the sobering finality of his own engagement, but Yuri views the question itself as being perfectly valid. Because really, what all-important use could his parents possibly have for strawberry flavored oil?

The tense, uncomfortable silence encompassing the throne room is unexpectedly broken by the gentle, characteristically quiet sound of the Queen’s laughter. 

Yuri’s body relaxes completely at the sound of his papa’s sweet, dulcet tones, every point of tension in his lithe form immediately easing at the reassuring sound of the Queen’s tender voice. The King’s own form seems to undergo a similar automatic response to his husband’s mirth, and Yuri sees the tension rapidly leaving his body as his father also begins to chuckle in the low, infectious way that Yuri will never admit to loving.

“Oh, my Yurachka,” his papa says indulgently, expression once again tender as he reaches one hand toward his husband while gazing at Yuri with fawning eyes. 

There’s something of tenderness in his parents’ doting gazes, but something of regret, too. It leaves Yuri wondering if there’s truly anything he can do to alleviate his parents’ guilt, their worry, their fear ーor if they will always be able to see through him, ready to coo at his attempts to distract them from their guilt even as the attempts themselves add to their feeling of burden. It makes Yuri realize that no matter how old he may feel, and no matter how much he seems to have aged, he will always be incredibly young and precious in his parents’ eyes.

***


	4. Chapter 4

***

With only one more hour to endure before the end of the procession, Yuri was utterly confident that he would be able to power through the remaining presentations with his head held high and dignity (mostly) intact. Self-assured in the pure intentions behind his attempts to distract his papa and father with bratty behavior, he had resolved to sit quietly and regally for the rest of the afternoon while valiantly awaiting whatever heinous punishment Lilia would mete out as soon as the procession ended. 

It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it was a scenario of the Prince’s own making; he was reconciled to the reality of whatever hellish punishment would follow it. And no disciplinary act of Lilia’s, however cruel she could be in her own brand of retributive justice, could extinguish the small flame of pride in his chest ignited by the success of distracting his parents, if only for a moment.

Basically, he had been perfectly fucking fine until fucking Jean-Jacques Leroy had decided to show up. 

Then, it had become an utter shitshow.

“Your Majesties!” Jean-Jacques vocalizes theatrically, his tall, svelte form dropping elegantly to the ground as he raises one hand over his heart in deference and genuflects on bended knee. “I come to you today not to present you with a report, or a gift from travels abroad ーbut rather, to request the return of a dear and precious object that I had once given freely but must now regretfully ask be returned to me.”

There is a beat of stunned silence throughout the throne room, members of the Royal Guard and Royal Family alike equally shocked by such a bold and unorthodox request from a dignitary’s son.

“What ever could you be referring to, Jean-Jacques?” The Queen intones confusedly, genuine bewilderment in his gaze as he surveys the young jouster dramatically kneeling before the throne of the King. “What object of yours could possibly be within our possession that you would need to request redress for?”

The young jouster lifts his gaze toward the Queen, eyes now glinting in impassioned irritation as he continues to address the Royal Family in his typical histrionic tones. “Ah! If only it were so easy to reclaim this lost object that simply granting my request were sufficient,” he reflects ruefully, voice now affecting the harrowing melancholy of a man to whom all hope is lost. “But the precious object that I had once freely given is one that I fear can never be returnedー and if it should be, I am not certain that I could possibly want it to be.”

“What paradox is this?” The King cries out in confusion, seeming both amused and yet exasperated by this sudden bout of dramatics. “What object could you both demand the return of and spurn the restoration of in the selfsame breath? And what item of yours could possibly be in our possession, when all gifts from the House of Leroy have come directly from your father?” Victor frets dubiously.

“Only that item which a man both hesitates to part with and wishes never to see returnedー his heart!” The young nobleman cries passionately, extending one slender, outstretched hand to reach longingly towards Yuri. “And this one is its current possessor!”

Now, Yuri has been both on the giving and receiving ends of a considerable amount of bullshit in his nineteen years, and he’s dead certain that the combined efforts of assholes like Jean-Jacques and utter weirdos like his parents have forced him to tolerate more than his fair share of petty antics. 

But he can’t quite remember the last time he was so blindingly angry that the question of if he wants to kill the person whose existence is offending him never even crosses his mind. Instead, his brain skips entirely over indignant outrage and the question of if this person should die and right over to the specific stage of anger where Yuri is contemplating which course of action will enable him to drape Jean-Jacques Leroy’s thoroughly sanitized pelt over his throne by the end of the day.

The tiger pelt can be moved to his bedroom, he calmly decides. Yes, its monochromatic stripes will look lovely against the mahogany wood of his armoire, just as Jean-Jacques’ flayed and tattered husk will look exceedingly satisfying against the gold of his throne.

In fact, maybe he will follow in his father’s footsteps, draping pelt after pelt of idiot after idiot onto the golden seat until they are all piled so high that Jean-Jacques’ sorry ass is only a mere memory from Yuri’s youth, buried under the skins of adversaries and allies alike.

“Surely, you can’t be serious,” the King replies indulgently, the warring laughter and disbelief in his voice betrayed only by the amused quirk of his lips as he gazes steadily down at the young nobleman. “You can’t mean to tell me that you requested an audience with the Royal Family merely to mourn the end of your little flirtations with Yuri,” Victor conjectures in a wavering voice, barely suppressed gaiety at the brazenly shameless stunt threatening to spill over his lips into laughter.

“Ah, but I have,” Jean-Jacques counters immediately, his expression now so sorrowful as to rival even the pained longing of a lovelorn Romeo. “And what’s worse, the capricious spirit who has injured me so coyishly affects innocence! When in reality, he has strung me along for so many years, like a skilled harpist merely playing at his craftー”

“This is utter fucking bullshit!” Yuri splutters indignantly, his mouth automatically supplying insults before his murderous brain can even catch up to this new idiocy being spewed from Jean-Jacques’ lying lips. The suggestion that he would gratify this deranged asshole with his attention for one second, let alone years, has finally tipped over the scales of Yuri’s tolerance for bullshit, and now he won’t rest until his utter humiliation is paid back pound for pound in Jean-Jacques Leroy’s flesh and blood. “I don’t have your freaking heart, you deluded, washed up has-beenー Wouldn’t take it from you if it were dipped in goldー Wouldn’t touch it except to rip it from your freaking chest,” the Prince snarls acridly, chest heaving in impassioned anger as he rises from his velvet cushion to stand indignantly from his throne.

“Ah, and therein lies the answer to my quandary,” Jean-Jacques bemoans loudly, wailing into the otherwise silent throne room from his position still genuflecting against the marble floor. “You think I’m ‘washed up’, that I’m a ‘has-been!’ You resent me for losing you to Otabek Altin!”

Yuri’s jaw makes an audible click as it hangs loosely from its hinges. His parents are all but combusting from poorly suppressed laughter now, and Yuri is left feeling betrayed that the loving parents whom he had gone to such lengths to distract from their guilt are only now finding their distractionー in their son’s pure and apparent pain. Bitterly, he thinks that his earlier question as to whether his parents are truly sadists has been unequivocally answered.

“I regret that I was unable to reclaim my title as victor in the tournament this year, my Yurachkaー Nay, that I was unable to reclaim my rightful position as the victor of my own crusade to win your love as you have won mine,” Jean-Jacques caterwauls in affected pain, his dramatics only slightly hindered by his eyes now glinting openly in mischievous glee as he observes the Prince’s stunned face and open jaw. “But I refuse to allow the small matter of your engagement to come between us in the way that these things tend to do. Say, would you consider allowing me the honor of acting as ringbearer at your wedding, when the fateful day finally arrives?” Jean-Jacques is now sporting a grin so wide and roguish that it threatens to split his face in two, and the gleam of devilish enjoyment in his eyes twinkles like a sapphire even amidst the splendor of the throne room. “I promise to fulfill my duty as ringbearer to the best of my ability, my Prince! Although, I cannot promise that I would not at least once attempt to run away with them if it might force you to chase me.”

Trembling as he is with undiluted rage, Yuri still manages to articulate to Jean-Jacques in unusually eloquent and even colorful language exactly what he can do with his precious rings, and where he can march straight to when that particular task is done.

***

Yuri flops backs against the plush velvet duvet and satin sheets of his decadent four poster bed with the long-suffering resignation of a man whose very soul has been hollowed out of his body.

It’s ludicrous, he thinks, that the future King of Amphora should be subjected to such public and slanderous insubordination at the hands of a pathetic has-been like Jean-Jacques. It’s absurd and downright treasonous, he thinks, that he had been forcibly restrained from rectifying the injustice himself, Mila’s iron grip the only thing restraining Yuri from descending the marble steps from his throne and plucking out the heart that Jean-Jacques claims Yuri has already stolen (or at the very least, restraining the Prince from punting one of his royal slippers into that asshole’s smug face).

Jean-Jacques had continued to wax poetic about how Yuri had snatched the heart from his chest like a kitten swiping at a mere toy until every minute of his audience had been exhausted, elaborating his asinine lunacy until the hour had run out and the facetious nobleman had had no choice but to leave the throne room as the day’s procession concluded.

Jean-Jacques even used that awful devil-tongue that he had picked up while accompanying his dignitary father on his travels abroad, calling Yuri “mon cher,” and “mon amour,” and mon whatever-the-fuck-kitten-is to an absurd degree, all while grinning proudly at the stunned and scandalized Prince’s reactions to his unceasing flirtations. Even while being forcefully ushered out of the throne room by members of the Royal Guard during his exeunt from the palace, Jean-Jacques had commented that he was only allowing himself to be escorted away because he was satisfied that the addictive spark of anger in Yuri’s glass green eyes had flared up to its highest point. 

It makes Yuri shudder in scarcely contained homicidal rage, hands tightly fisting in the sericeous fabrics of his bed as he clenches his teeth at the pain to his pride. He should flay that man alive, leaving nothing but the tattered ribbons of his skin and the whites of his bones as the sole evidence of his existence on this earth. And Yuri could actually do it, too, first sending the man to the slaughter and then giving explicit instructions that whatever remains should be used to make a Jean-Jacques belt, scarf, and bedshirtー so that the Prince could always wear a piece of his first slaughtered enemy to remind others of the fate they will suffer if they think it wise to fuck with him.

Sure, it would be a direct violation of the Royal Court’s explicit warnings not to go vigilante on Jean-Jacques’ sorry ass, an advisory issued to the Prince under penalty of having all future power in the Royal Court system revoked. But Yuri’s almost certain that it would be worth it, if for nothing else than for the sheer satisfaction of permanently wiping the demeaning grin off of that dickhead’s disgustingly self-satisfied face.

He should do it. He should set the plans in motion tonight. He wants to do it. And yet…

When he thinks of the unconcealed laughter smoothing out the worried creases of his father’s face, of the glimmer of amusement and even fondness replacing the stern and bitter glint of anger in his papa’s eyes, he can’t bring himself to fault Jean-Jacques for approaching the Royal Family when they were most in need of a diversion and lending his services in the only way that that vapid moron possibly could.

Yuri decides that for that fact, and that fact alone, the asshole can keep his head.

For now, anyway.

Yuri sighs slowly and deeply, feeling both exceedingly proud and deeply disappointed over his decision to do what he begrudgingly admits is the mature thing and not commit premeditated murder in the first degree. Lethargically picking himself up from the plush depths of his luxurious bed, he languidly makes his way over to the oak wood bookshelves on the opposite side of his dimly illuminated bedchamber, mentally debating whether a royal history book or an illustrated anthology of Amphoran felines would be best suited to helping him remedy the soul-deep weariness brought on by this irredeemably sucky catastrophe of a day. He eventually selects the anthology, approaching the comfortable sill of his gleaming floor-to-ceiling bay windows and preparing to curl himself up on the accompanying platform draped generously in sumptuous velvets and shimmering silks. 

The sun is rapidly approaching the horizon where the Western parapet of the palace meets the delicate blues and pale purples of the pre-twilight sky, allowing the soft, buttery light of late evening to filter invitingly through the lustrous windowpanes and into the Prince’s otherwise dark room. He reaches over the sill to unclasp the latch securing the windows shut, wanting to see the brilliant reds and fiery titians of the fierce Amphoran sunrise spilling over the crepuscular sky to color the dark stone of his balcony at the time of nightbreak.

But Yuri’s fingers still in their progress as he abruptly stops short, his view of the balcony causing his entire body to tense in guarded surpriseー only for the emotion to be very rapidly and resolutely replaced with unadulterated fury.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I could really think about while writing the beginning of that scene in the throne room is how Victuuri would use their nation’s wealth and diplomatic ties to scout for scented and flavored lubes from across the globe. And Yuri, poor child that he is, has no clue of the reason for his parent’s fascination with the little vials of oil. He’s such a sheltered nineteen year old… Maybe his fiance could help him to become a little more worldly, if Yuri were to wish it.
> 
> JJ’s flirtations were mostly meant as a distraction for Yuri and Victuuri to feel at ease. Just as in the original series, he really does care for Yuriー but as he makes that known through his facetious teasing, Yuri is quite thrown off by it and even gestures meant to be friendly often have the opposite effect...
> 
> Enjoying the story so far? Please let me know! I respond to all feedback. And come talk to me on my shiny new tumblr https://ilya-writes.tumblr.com/


	5. Chapter 5

***

“What the fuck?”

It’s the first thing out of Yuri’s mouth when his thoughts are cohesive enough to allow speech, but he can barely hear his own words over the roaring of blood in his ears. His palms are still stinging from the impact of having slammed them against the tempered panes of glass as he flung them open, and if he could hear anything other than the furious rushing of blood, his ears would surely be ringing painfully at the resounding thwack of tall windows colliding with the cold stone of castle walls.

Despite Yuri’s complete and unquestioned certainty that Otabek had been sleeping out on the cold stone of the balcony only a moment before, he manages to awaken at Yuri’s abrupt expletive with a minimal amount of alarm. Not even a microexpression of agitation or lethargy now remains on the former military commander’s perfectly placid face, years of impeccable training in the Jinen military evident in how smoothly and elegantly he has adopted a pose of respectful genuflection and an expression of poised calm. Yuri wants to smack it off.

“My Prince,” Otabek intones lowly, voice rough and gravelly with sleep even as he affects an air of perfect composure. “I apologize for having alarmed you. I humbly seek pardon for having failed to make my presence known to you properly; my intention was to await your return from official duties in order that I might beg forgiveness for having offended you this morning. However, it seems that your personal guard has given orders that I not be admitted into the East Wing of the palace under any circumstance. My intrusion into your quarters has now become yet another offense for which I must entreat your magnanimity.”

Yuri’s fists clench tightly in the aftermath of Otabek’s words, nails impressing painful half-moons into the tender skin of his palms. The juxtaposition of his fiance’s obsequious apologies against his shamelessly brazen actions leaves Yuri simultaneously in awe of his fiance’s boldness and furious at his refusal to respect even the most basic of boundaries. 

“Fuck your pardon!” Yuri spits acidically into the cold crepuscular air of the chilly twi-lit night. The fierce vermillions and gory crimsons of the setting sun have now all but overtaken the Amphoran skyline, and rays of wine-red light pool across the balcony around Otabek’s feet like a physical manifestation of the blood that Yuri fiercely wishes he were legally allowed to spill. “And fuck you. None of your half-assed attempts at faking respect are going to get you anything, asshole. I already know what kind of man you areー you’ve made your lack of regret for fucking up my life abundantly clear this morning. Sneaking into my room and attempting to give me Stockholm syndrome won’t make me change my mind about you, dickhead,” Yuri snarls vehemently, his body trembling minutely as his chest heaves to regain breath.

As the sound of Yuri’s labored breathing recedes into silence, a tense, pregnant pause overtakes the still night air between the Prince and his humbly kneeling fiance. For a single, triumphant second, Yuri believes that he can discern a brief flash of emotion overwriting the still, immutable lines of the jouster’s indecipherable expression. But the moment passes too quickly for the Prince to pinpoint whatever he’d seen passing behind the jouster’s poised facade, and it’s all too easy to believe that the brief slip of his stoic fiance’s mask was merely an illusion.

“I am… sorry that you feel that way, Yurachka,” the Jinen man replies carefully. The low timbre of his voice is suspiciously hoarse and thick despite the time that has elapsed since his awakening from slumber. “It is truly regrettable that I have left you with such an unfavorable impression. I will once more apologize for having offended you this morning, and for intruding on your balcony this evening. However, I will notー I can not apologize for the terms of my proposal,” the jouster enunciates slowly, eyes alive with something sharp and determined as he lifts his head to meet Yuri’s intense gaze. “And I refuse to apologize for my repeated attempts to earn your trust and your forgiveness. I will persist in my efforts to gain your understanding, if not your favor, regardless of how skeptical or affronted you may at first be. I am confident that, over time, you will learn to at least allow yourself to be loved by me even if you cannot or will not reciprocate my sentiments, my Prince.”

Yuri scowls down at the still obstinately kneeling jouster before him, a bout of bitter laughter rising to his throat as he sneers at his fiance in undisguised resentment. “Did I not speak plainly enough for you, commoner? Did I fucking stutter? I don’t want anything that a disgusting prick like you could possibly offer, now or ever. And trespassing in my goddamn roomー”

“I did not trespass into your room,” Otabek interjects abruptly, voice flat and unperturbed as he interrupts the Prince. The moonrise is just underway now, the magnificent opulence of the dying sun having been replaced by the pale face of a silver half-moon hanging low on the horizon. Its muted illumination casts ethereal moonbeams over Otabek’s suppliant form, glinting alluringly off of the silver of his hypnotically swaying earpiece. The soft radiance of the early night highlights the Jinen man’s exotic, caramel-colored skin and dark, enigmatic amber eyes in impossibly soft undertones. The sight is just bewitching enough to momentarily distract the embittered Prince from the injustice of having been interrupted by a commoner.

“I trespassed upon your balcony,” Otabek clarifies carefully, taking cautious advantage of the temporary lull in the Prince’s heartfelt stream of expletives. “This, I admit. However, you may at least be satisfied in knowing that I have gone to great lengths in order that I might not compromise the privacy afforded by your own chambers.”

“It’sー Whatever! It doesn’t matter, asshole!” Yuri shouts exasperatedly, cursing his own lips for stumbling over the words due to the (unfairly attractive) sight of his dickhead fiance illuminated by moonlight. “I don’t know what you had to do to get here, and I really don’t care so long as you can leave the same way when you get the fuck out.” 

Otabek nods in acknowledgement, his usual imperviousness to his fiance’s constant curses now fully on display. “I will likely be able to leave in the same way,” he reflects somberly, attention turning inward in thought, “provided that conditions have not changed drastically as the result of my journey here.” He turns slightly as he says the words, peering pensively over the side of the balcony as he mentally deliberates how best to make his exit at the behest of the Prince.

Yuri follows Otabek’s gaze in begrudging curiosity, his sight extending past the obstruction of his fiance’s shoulder to rest on the perfectly normal image of the many trellises of roses, honeysuckles, hoyas, and other succulent flowers climbing the lattice-work of the castle walls. It isn’t until Yuri’s vision properly acclimates to the darkness surrounding the stone walls that he realizes the aforementioned plant life seems to be suspiciously displaced and perturbed-looking to the right side of his balcony, and the consequent realization has his mouth moving on autopilot before he can even think to disguise his alarm. 

“You climbed here? What theー It’s seventeen floors up!” 

The perfectly straight set of Otabek’s mouth lifts up slightly at one corner as he takes in the Prince’s gaping jaw and uncharacteristically dazed expression. “Fourteen,” the jouster corrects casually, voice taking on a playful lilt that contrasts greatly with his usually humorless tone. “I had been three floors up in my room at the West Wing when I began to climb. However, I can certainly climb all seventeen floors back down if it will be a more impressive feat to you, Yurachka,” he states, lips pulling upward into an incredibly soft smile. “You only need request it, and you will see it done.”

It’s at this point that Potya, who had previously been clawing at the silk embroidery of a particularly expensive pashmina, had finally deigned to dignify her human companion and his still kneeling fiance with her presence. Making her way over to the two men with the rapid gait of a being whose time is of inestimable importance, she unreservedly hops up onto the sill of the broad bay windows and begins coquettishly pawing at Otabek’s intricate silver earpiece, which twinkles faintly in the moonlight.

The upward lilt of a smile lingering around the edges of Otabek’s lips abruptly expands into a full grin at the small feline’s persistent ministrations, and Yuri feels his heart stutter wantonly in his chest as his fiance carefully displaces Potya’s paw from his shoulder with the utmost gentleness and deliberate care.

The Prince takes this opportunity to surreptitiously eye the man in question, who is still gently attempting to dissuade Potya from staking her claim on exclusive rights to his left shoulder and ear. His fiance’s beautifully tanned skin and singularly dark, ebony-colored locks look distinctly otherworldly in the semi-dark of early night, accentuated as they are by lustrous slivers of silver moonlight. He hazards a glance down toward the rest of his fiance’s softly illuminated silhouette and is suddenly transfixed by the view of white linen stretched taut over temptingly tanned skin. The pale fabric strains at the seams to accommodate the golden muscles of Otabek’s incredibly broad chest, the protrusions of his powerfully muscled arms, and the enticing bulge of his thickly corded thighs...

Potya jumps back down from the windowsill without warning, apparently having grown tired of pawing at the elusive earpiece and ready to seek out another victim soon to meet with the fatal swipe of a sharply curved claw. The feline’s sudden descent startles Yuri, drawing his thoughts away from the undeniably alluring qualities of the masculine body before him and toward the unbearably gentle smile that has now returned to his fiance’s face.

“You should leave now,” Yuri states matter-of-factly. His voice is completely devoid of the fire that had characterized his furious words earlier, and all his tone now imparts is his soul-deep weariness. Yuri has wanted to be done with this bullshit day ever since his disastrous meeting with Otabek in the council room this morning, and yet every consecutive hour has brought him some new, fresh hell. 

And yet, he doesn’t want to rage at Jean-Jacques anymore, no longer feels justified in fulminating against Mila, and he especially doesn’t want to begin untangling the complex web of emotions that becomes all the more intricate when his heart lurches unexpectedly at the sincerity he sees in his vexing fiance’s incredibly soft, incredibly fond smile...

No, all that Yuri wants now is to be left alone.

Yuri makes to close the windows, hand placed firmly on the latch and no longer even a bit curious as to how (or even if) his fiance will be able to make his own way down.

“Yurachka,” the jouster intones swiftly, voice sharp with a hard edge of desperation as his hands instinctively move to block Yuri’s progress by pressing back against the glass. “Please consider what I have said tonight. I understand now that you must resent me; I am not so proud as to pretend that I do not understand the meaning of your words, even if their reality wounds me. But I am no tyrant, my Prince. I will not demand of you more than you are willing to give.” Otabek draws in a breath, steeling himself for the words that will follow as his suddenly vulnerable amber gaze seeks out the emerald eyes of the uncharacteristically silent Prince before him. “I am prepared to offer you a partnership, Yurachka. An alliance based on mutual respect and understandingー and a purely platonic union, I assure you. If you should call for me, no matter the time of day or night, then I should fly to your service at a moment’s notice, ready to stake my life for your aid and protection. My sole request is that I am allowed to be your confidante, your patron, and your protector... Until the day when my affections are reciprocated by your own, and you will be willing to accept the love that I so truly desire to share with you, my Yurachka.”

Yuri’s infamous temper experiences a sudden but not unexpected revival at the cloying sweetness and underlying sharpness of the jouster’s wordsー Does he truly believe he can bargain for the love of the future King of Amphora? Use saccharine words and grand gestures to cajole him into submission and cage the Ice Tiger of Amphora?

Yuri thinks not.

He swiftly closes both windows with as much force as he can muster, throwing Otabek off balance and managing to secure the latch over one of his fiance’s fingers. He is rewarded with a quiet Jinen curse, the first expletive that he has heard from the mouth of his betrothed, and immediately feels a sense of overwhelming satisfaction at the feat. 

Decisively drawing the thickly-brocaded velvet curtains over the panes of glass, Yuri proceeds to mechanically go through the motions of preparing himself for slumber. His mind is so overloaded with the developments of his unexpectedly eventful day that he hardly sees nor feels his surroundings as he goes about his routine, experiencing varying degrees of sensory disconnect as he performs on autopilot. The Prince can’t remember the last time he’s been left so exhausted by the events of a single day, and he concentrates solely on deliberately letting his thoughts taper off and providing the perfect blank canvas for sleep to overtake.

(It doesn’t work. Yuri lays still and silent as indigo night stretches into golden dawn and blue morning, but slumber never comes. All he sees when he closes his eyes is the unguarded look of desperation in his fiance’s gaze as he endlessly asks, “Yurachka, won’t you be mine?”)

***

Yuri is a zombie the next day.

The shuffling gait, lethargic movements, mumbled and unintelligible speech, burning desire to bite people’s heads off and feast on their fleshー they’re all there, and all telltale signs that the Prince has had a sleepless night and the whole castle will have hell to pay.

Royal Guard and Royal Counsel members alike knowingly scuttle out of the Prince’s way as he careens around the palace on unsteady legs. His mind is too preoccupied with memories of shamelessly bold words and gratuitously gentle smiles to give one damn whether he ends up shouldering a pedestrian into a corridor wall.

He eventually finds himself in the somber makeshift classroom in which he takes his morning lessons from Yakov, after having been grabbed by the wrist and forcefully steered there by an all too amused Mila. But his mind drifts aimlessly between miserable fatigue and misdirected rage for most of his lessons, only quieting somewhat when his exasperated tutor dismisses him from lecture early and allows the Prince to join his parents for midday meal.

Yuri immediately bolts out of the modest chamber with more energy than he’s displayed all morning, his conscious mind resurfacing from the murky depths of exhaustion as he make his way to a small but baroquely decorated room in the East Wing of the palace. The Royal Couple have reserved the cozy dining chamber there for their intimate meals together as a family, and (while Yuri’s pride will never allow him to admit this to another living soul) he secretly enjoys being able to sit down with his disgustingly doting parents and gain the full force of their attention without the interruptions of intrusive servants, paranoid guards, senile old tutors, or hellish governesses.

Yuri marches down the hallway toward the small octagonal room with more haste than he would normally allow himself to show, only forcing himself to slow down out of consideration for his reputation as a rebellious nineteen year old. But his carefully controlled pace falters at the sight of his unusually withdrawn and somber parents sitting silently at the small oak table, and he stops completely at the doorway before haltingly moving to sit between the equally somber King and Queen.

The King’s ashen face is drawn tight with grim lines of worry, and there is no trace of the radiant joviality that typically overtakes his features when in the presence of the two people he loves most in the world. He is uncommonly reserved and silent as he stares absently at the glossy surface of the dining table, not even seeming to take notice of his son’s presence beside him. And while the King’s own mien appears to have been transmuted and changed by stark creases of anxiety and brooding worry, the Queen’s normally gentle expression has been contorted by harsh lines of bitterness and the fierce glint of resentment shining bright in his eyes.

Yuri sees the tiredness in his father’s somber scowl, sees the jagged edge of loathing in his papa’s defiant eyes, and immediately understands the reality that his parents are facing. They are fighting for him, no doubt spending sleepless nights reviewing the Amphoran legal code and negotiating with the council on his behalf, using every modicum of influence they possess to try and reach some understanding or agreement that will exonerate Yuri of his duty to his betrothed. 

And truthfully Yuri adores them for trying to fight the system like this, adores them for attempting to forsake one of Amphora’s most time-honored traditions all for the sake of their beloved son. But mostly he just hates that he’s causing them pain, and he hates that his position as the Prince and his duty to Amphora is the cause of this new-found source of anxiety and bitterness that has taken up permanent residence in their livesー even if it’s really that bastard Otabek’s fault.

Because for the first time in his life, Yuri begins to feel the shackles of privilege and the bindings of royalty just as heavy and real as if there were a yoke and mantel around his own neck.

***

Otabek reappears on Yuri’s balcony the following night, broad shoulders blocking out the last rays of the dying sun as his silhouette casts ominously dark shadows across the walls of the Prince’s chambers.

The Prince shoves open the glass of the tall bay windows just as fervently as he had the night before, energy having returned to him after he was released early from his evening lessons and allowed time to sleep. It was only the modest rapping of Otabek’s sharp knuckles on the panes of tempered glass that ultimately aroused Yuri from his blissful slumber, alerting him to his fiance’s presence and prompting him to fly towards the balcony with almost murderous rage.

“I believe I told you to fuck off,” Yuri states imperiously, words dripping acid as he gazes down his nose at the kneeling jouster. “And to stop your pathetic begging. I don’t want anything to do with common trash like youー your’re only wasting my time.”

The Prince’s acerbic curses and vicious verdicts have been known to make lesser men weak at the knees, but the jousters stays firmly in place as he kneels obediently before his betrothed. The determination in the Jinen man’s face does not waver as he gazes up into the Prince’s fiery emerald eyes, steeling his amber gaze as he begins to speak. 

“Yuri,” the jouster intones deeply in his strongly accented Amphoran, “I assure you that I understand your thoughts on our engagement. I am not so bold as to pretend that I can change your mind, or redirect the course of your passions towards me, my Prince. Yet I am devoting the whole of my abilities, the whole of my body, and the whole of my life to your service. Denying me the opportunity to serve as your protector, your partner, or even as your devoted attendant is too cruel of a punishment even for you, my future King.” 

The jouster pauses here to take a deep breath, gaze alert despite his silence as he closely monitors Yuri’s expression. The Prince himself can feel the beginnings of rage seeping in at the periphery of his thoughts, dark waves of furious emotion lapping at the shore of his rationality. But the marvelous hoarseness of Otabek’s voice and the exotic lilt of his accented words are not lost on Yuri during the course of the jouster’s speech, and their novelty proves just distracting enough to divert the Prince’s attention away from the ever-present trickle of anger that so often threatens to inundate him. He keeps his expression carefully cold and regal as he returns Otabek’s gaze, masking his impatience at the man’s sudden pause even as he waits breathlessly for his fiance to resume his speech.

“I have sought permission to act as your protector and personal guard,” Otabek reflects solemnly, voice sharp with an edge of desperation as he resumes his address of the Prince, “and have offered unconditional dedication to your aid. I have sought permission to act as your partner and friend, and have offered obedient service to any caprice or whim that you would have me entertain. I have sought permission to act as your servant, and have displayed unwavering humility and obedience to your will. And yet, you have rejected it all, my Prince. You have rejected everything I am and all I could think to give, claiming that they are nothing but offal to you.” The Jinen man pauses again here, drawing a steady breath and grounding himself against the still unwavering glare of the Prince before continuing. “And yet, I am the one who must once again apologize. I have been so consumed, so possessed by the urge to gain your favor that I did not think to consider what you stated so plainly in the council room. I did not think to reflect that I truly have been treating you as an object, as a prize to be obtained. And I did not once think to ask what it is that you desire of me, my Prince,” the jouster admits lowly, eyes smoldering with intensity as he gazes up at his betrothed. “So tell me, Yurachka... what is it that you desire of me?”

Yuri feels the sudden onslaught of shock following the jouster’s words so acutely that it snatches the breath out of his lungs. The Prince can feel the moment that his conviction leaves him, feel the exact moment that the small, curled bud of hope within his chest blooms painfully into something large and unignorable. 

But Yuri’s cynicism has been nurtured steadily over the years of his life as a living tithe to the Amphoran government, and it has multiplied exponentially since his forced engagement to the man before him had been finalized. Yuri has been forced to witness since childhood as high-ranking dignitaries and foreign officials of neighboring lands use daily lies and false promises to feed on the misplaced hopes of others, of innocent people who would rather believe pretty lies than monstrous truths. And while Yuri won’t fault them for being taken in by these deceptions, he refuses to allow himself to become one of them. Brushing aside the tendrils of hope threatening to constrict his chest, he focuses solely on the pessimistic logic that has been his companion for years, cynical laughter bubbling up to his lips as he does so. 

“I want nothing from you,” the Prince hisses heatedly, leaning forward to clutch tightly at the windowsill as he directs his haughty gaze down over the still kneeling jouster. “Nothingー except your absence. You could offer me the beating heart fresh from the red of your bloodied chest, and it wouldn’t change anything between usー wouldn’t change the fact that you’ve forced me to marry you.” Yuri’s chest heaves with furious breath as he snarls the acrid words, having worked himself up into a fervor strong enough to burn through his body like fire. “There is nothing a commoner like you could offer that a Prince would ever be tempted by, and I would sooner die than take your cheap words of devotion as payment for my marriage,” he growls resolutely. The Prince’s arms spring out to close the windows as soon as the final word has left his mouth, shaking fingers fumbling with the latch as he hurries to secure it. 

But Otabek is determined not to let this night resolve in the same manner as the last. Broad, powerful hands fly out to push back against the glass, the white lines of deep scars crisscrossing the golden flesh pressed up against the window panes as he impedes the Prince’s progress and utters a single fateful word:

“Freedom.”

Yuri pauses abruptly at the pivotal word, no longer attempting to fight against Otabek’s strength as he stares back, confused, into determined amber eyes. The jouster’s large hands are pressed up against the windows parallel to Yuri’s own palms on the glass, and the Prince’s breath stutters at the realization that he can feel the warmth of Otabek’s flesh even through the barrier of the panes.

“I can give you freedom, Yurachka,” the jouster states decisively, the warmth of his flesh through the glass growing ever hotter the longer he holds the Prince’s emerald gaze. “Freedom from the burdens of royalty and from the gilded cage of the castle, if you should wish it. I meant every word that I said that day, my Prince, when I first declared my intentions. ‘I am a former commander of the Jinen army, a warrior’,” Otabek repeats slowly, echoing the very words that he had said to Yuri in the stadium so few days ago. “‘I have risked my life in this tournament, and I will devote the rest of it to you.’ I know that you long for the world outside of these castle walls, a world unencumbered by the burdens of the Crown. I can be the one to provide you with the knowledge of that world and allow you to experience it for yourself, if only temporarily. And I shall wager my very life upon such a promise, even though I know it to be a near treasonous offense to knowingly aid the future heir’s straying outside of the castle… I can give you freedom, Yurachka. If you let me.” 

And so saying, Otabek rises from his kneeling position in front of the Prince for the first time in their short betrothment, extending a single scarred palm toward the silent Yuri.

It strikes Yuri now that he’s never truly realized exactly how powerful his fiance is until this momentー that he’s never before thought to consider the true height of the man who has always obediently knelt before him, never put true thought into how much power his darkly tanned palms possess.

Otabek is strong enough to protect him. That much, Yuri now knows to be true.

But is he powerful enough to lift the heavy shackles and loosen the chafing ties that bind the Prince in his life of servitude to the Amphoran Crown? Is he devoted enough to break Amphoran law to allow the fiercely controlled Prince his first taste of what could be considered freedom? 

Yuri finds himself suddenly and desperately wishing for strengthー whether the strength to walk away or to stand firm, he doesn’t know. The Prince knows in his heart of hearts, cor cordium, that he wants to believe his fiance has the strength to make good on his promises of protection and allegiance. He wants to believe that he’s miscalculated or maybe even misjudged the intentions of his betrothed, and that the man before him truly does wish to serve Yuri with the unwavering dedication promised in his firmly devoted gaze. And yet, lingering traces of his typical cynicism still cling to the Prince’s every thought, reminding him not to instill his faith in the man before him.

But as Yuri directs his emerald gaze up into the darkly smoldering eyes of his fiance and presses his own soft, pale hand into the man’s calloused golden palm, he knows the answer.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say a huge thanks to everyone whose incredibly sweet comments and support for this story have kept me writing over these past several weeks. Betelxeuse especially has been an awesome source of motivation for me to power through this chapter; it was difficult to write in full, but I kept writing purely so I could insert some subtle hand porn for her.
> 
> As always, please feel free to drop me a line and let me know what you've thought of the story so far, or if you just want to talk. I am mentally drained after writing this past chapter, but I will do my best to keep up with everyone, and I always respond to feedback.


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